Twisted Metal: Inamorata's Cry
by AngelEve
Summary: The rules of Twisted Metal; drive hard, shoot straight and never fall in love...
1. Ignition

**__**

TWISTED METAL: INAMORATA'S CRY

**__**

CHAPTER ONE: IGNITION

Black for death.

White for purity.

Pink for a girl.

Blue for a boy.

Red for danger.

Green for go.

The lights on the dash turned green one by one, each indicating the car's systems starting up. Fuel management first, then power steering, anti-lock brakes, radar, transponder, nitrous, defence, weapons.

She smiled, red lips flickering out across her face. Red for danger.

The heads-up display came to life in front of her, projecting itself onto the windscreen of her car, a sleek silver Honda RSX that she called the Seraph. The HUD glowed green, the reticle in the centre still without targets to lock to within the spacious garage. At the bottom of the display, 'SAFE' was flashing in bold lettering, a reminder that the Seraph was in stand-by mode.

She thumbed the control buttons on the steering wheel, an inventory appearing on the HUD. Her smile grew, noting the nitrous level at 100%. An injection of nitrous oxide into an engine provides an instant but short-term speed increase, a turbo boost, if you will. And as far as she was concerned, the faster the better. Always a fan of motor racing from a child, she had opted for speed over raw power when she had said yes to him.

Him.

You couldn't really say no to him, could you? A soft laugh filled the car. You'd have to be insane to say no to him, but you'd have to be insane to say yes.

Clearing her head, she moved through the HUD's menu, taking stock; 5 incendiary missiles, or 'fires' as they were called, 5 homing missiles that were a variant of the AIM-92 Stinger anti-aircraft missiles, 2 non-directional high-explosive missiles and 2000 rounds in the machine gun under the hood.

Insane to say yes, but you got wonderful toys.

_Insane,_ she thought, _What a beautiful little word_._ Much better than psychotic, deranged, lunatic, maniacal_.

So much sweeter. Like camouflage over a beartrap, a sweet aroma to a poison gas, it covers the meaning, sugar-coats it for easy digestion. English had been her favourite class at school.

Insane. Adj, (1) Seriously mentally ill and unable to live in normal society.

_Normal_. _A normal society is one where governments wage wars spurred on by businesses, where babies die naturally while rapists live to 100_,_ where our friends and family are ripped away from us_. _Normal_. _Who wants normal?_

(2) People who are insane.

_Insane_. _Insane is working to 'better yourself' at school, running up the debts, getting some low-paid job somewhere (somewhere anonymous and identical), working all the hours God sends and destroying your life all for money, just so you can clone yourself and go off and die, knowing you've kept the species going for at least one more generation_.

(3) Very stupid, crazy or dangerous.

_Hey, what do you know, I guess I must be insane after all_.

Insane to say yes, insane to say no, insane to be asked.

She thought it was a dream at first. A hallucination born out of the 50mgs of Molapine to keep her calm for the night, making her frightened that the dreams were coming back again.

He stood over her, smiling like a viper would if it could. His face was bald and burnt, a busted up eye just adding to the look.

She had pulled the covers over herself at the sight of the stranger, ready to pounce at the slightest threat. "What?" she had asked, her voice still groggy with sleep.

He had chuckled, a deep laugh that lacked any humour and chilled her to the soul. "Nice room," he said, motioning to the stripped down room, the walls bare and featureless, nothing for a blanket noose to get purchase on.

She had shrugged. "It's free. Food's terrible but the drugs are great. Are you here to offer me another suite? Maybe one with a view of the pool?"

"No." Simple. Simple and getting to the point.

"Well what then?"

Insane.

Blackfield Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

Sorry, Blackfield Hospital for the Emotionally Troubled.

God, how she _hated_ political correctness, the way it tried to sweeten everything, make it nicer. But in reality, it was just dumbing down. Like telling a child that their dog's gone to live on a farm in Ohio, and the whole world was suffering this.

_Call a spade a spade_.

_Call a lunatic a lunatic_.

_Better yet, call her Sarah_.

He had.

Him.

"Calypso. My name is Calypso."

She grinned, "Catchy. Parents not like you or something?"

He nodded. "So I killed them with my bare hands."

She pressed her back harder into the wall, a chill growing in her spine. How did he get into her room (which she had tried so many times to escape from), and what was he doing standing in front of her?

She checked his hands for a shank and saw none, but from what he had just said, it sounded like he didn't need one. 

"N...nice," she managed.

"Sarah, do you dream? Well, of course you do, but what I mean is, did you dream _before_? What did you want more than anything in the world? What do you want just now, Sarah?"

"How do you know my name?"

He shook his head softly at such trivial matters. "Sarah Clare Nightingale, born December 19, 1982. Attended..."

Sarah cut him off with a wave of her hand, a look of intrigue crossing her face. "Fine, you know me. What are you here for? Making my wishes come true like a fairy godmother?"

Calypso looked her over; her auburn hair messed up by sleep, tumbling over her shoulders, brown eyes fixed intently on him. "I can give you whatever you want, anything you've ever wanted."

"What's the catch?"

"You're fast. Two catches; the first is to join my little game."

"And the second?"

"You have to win."

She took a breath. "And then I get whatever I want?"

"_Anything_ you like."

"Must be quite a game," she said evenly.

Calypso smiled his viper smile. "It is."

Insane.

Insane to be asked. Insane to say no.

Even more insane to say yes.

The systems check on the Seraph complete, Sarah relaxed back into the driver's seat, still unsure about everything. Hell, it was far too late for that now, wasn't it? As soon as she had agreed to join Calypso in his game, all hell had broken loose, literally.

As if hell had anything that could match him.

Needles Kane, the former surgeon turned serial killer, the one that made Bundy, Manson and the rest look like petty thieves in comparison. The serial killer that had prowled the country leaving a trail behind him that few could even comprehend. The serial killer who had become an urban legend, even while he was still killing. The serial killer they said couldn't be killed.

Sweet Tooth.

The man who had required a specially-built wing at Blackfield, the man who terrified the biggest of guards, who was untreatable, seemingly indestructible, and now on the loose.

Out.

Escaped.

Unleashed.

He -no- _it_ was out of its cell. A mere moment after Calypso had walked out of Sarah's room, the power had gone, plunging Blackfield into it's darkest ever night. With the lights, alarms, security and cell locks controlled by the central computer, the entire building was immersed in silence for a year-long second, before the screams. And the wails. And the hollers.

Blackfield had shut down and Sarah hadn't waited.

A million questions had run through Sarah's mind during her desperate flight from Blackfield that night, losing herself among the throng of patients and staff, each as confused and terrified as the other at the thought of _him_ being free. Madness, sheer madness and panic had swept through Blackfield like a forest fire, running, screaming, crying, begging.

Sarah had closed herself off, head down and ran through the cloud of pandemonium, still asking questions. Was it Calypso behind Sweet Tooth's breakout? Why? All this just for her? Surely not. No? What was going to happen to her, would she even make it to the meeting point Calypso had arranged? If she did, what then? If not...?

And then dirt.

Under the wide pale moon, the world had appeared beautiful, stunning her in her tracks. Sarah had looked down at her bare feet standing in the earth, a tremendous sense of excitement and wonder filling her body, blotting out the fear and confusion for a brief moment.

The screaming of patients and the barking of dogs broke her thoughts and sent her running off into the night, towards New York City, running against a deadline.

The next time she looked at the moon, it was 24 hours later, a torrential downpour lashing down on Sarah as she stood hunched outside the Empire State Building. Just as she was beginning to curse Calypso, a sleek stretch limousine had drawn up in front of her, a hand beckoning her inside.

And from that car to this, the Seraph which Calypso had given her, unable to comprehend everything he had told her inside that limousine. 

He had called it 'Twisted Metal', seemingly proud of his little competition.

"Cute name," she had said, still angry about being soaked to the skin. "Gimmie details."

"Simple, oh so simple. Each year, a number of participants are invited to join my competition, and the winner gets their wish from me at the end. To win, all you have to do is make sure you're the last one left."

"Doing what?"

"You like cars, don't you, Sarah? Fast ones?"

"You want me to be in a race?"

A flicker of a smile crossed Calypso's face. "Call it a race to survive."

Sarah had fixed him with a look. "Are you talking about some kind of destruction derby?"

A deep chuckle. "Something like that. Twisted Metal takes place over five rounds, where twenty competitors will engage in automotive gladiatorial combat in a fight to the death. I will provide the automobiles you require, fit them to your personal standards and provide enough weaponry for you all. I set the rules, the times and let mayhem commence.

"Why?" she croaked, somewhat taken aback.

"Why not? It's amusing. It's fun to watch."

Sarah looked over the figure sitting opposite her and wondered just what else this strange man found fun.

Calypso went on; "Some combat will take place within fixed arenas, while others...well others are others. During the first four rounds, the two competitors remaining at the end will go through, placed in the pool to be randomly drawn for the next battle. Depending on the luck of the draw, you may have to fight five times, you may luck out and go right through to the final, though I wouldn't recommend going out there a virgin, so to speak."

She looked on in shock. He had made no effort to hide the barbarity of the competition, not hard sell to her. But yet, _something_ was drawing her towards it. The past was pushing her towards her future.

Something in her soul was trying to say yes, and she could tell Calypso knew this. And that chilled her even more.

"So?" he asked.

"A fight to the death?" She frowned a little; was she really prepared to kill? To die? But…if he could give her everything. _Everything_…_he could fix everything_.

"You have any problems with that, Sarah?" he asked, as if reading her mind. "You have no family, you're an escaped mental patient with a history of self-harm and violent tendencies. All you have to look forward to is a life of institutionalised care. You can live for another 100 years as a walking zombie, or try and survive the next week and get your heart's desire." Calypso crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. "I'll make it clear to you, it's highly unlikely that you'll survive."

Sarah smiled a little, trying to disguise her thoughts. "Unlikely, but not for sure. Let's do this."


	2. Welcoming Committee

**__**

CHAPTER TWO: WELCOMING COMMITTEE

The alarm jolted Sarah out of a fitful sleep.

She stretched and yawned as she sat up in bed, taking in her surroundings with a tired daze. Not much different from Blackfield, her room was basic enough to be called a cell. A single bed took up one wall, while two plain doors and a screen - either computer or television - occupied the other three.

She rubbed her eyes as she swung her legs out of the bed, looking around for the source of the alarm. With no clock, her bleary eyes eventually settled on a small speaker set into the wall next to the screen. 

Abruptly, the beeping stopped, the room filled with silence once more, making Sarah shiver. Silence reminded her of night at Blackfield, lockdown they had called it. Lockdown was when the thoughts and dreams and memories came, when there was nothing you could do about them. Endless nights punctuated by screams or wails from inside the hospital, and mornings only brought stories of suicide, abuse by the staff, or worse, another day alive at Blackfield.

She stumbled through the door on the right of the room while hauling her T-shirt over her head, aiming to stay in the shower as long as possible.

*

Sarah managed 25 minutes in the shower before another alarm went off in the other room. A fluffy white towel from the bathroom wrapped around her, she emerged into the main room with her red hair dripping a trail behind her.

_Funny,_ she thought, _A competition based on killing and they still provide you with towels_.

The screen on the wall flashed up an image of Calypso, the lights dimmed over his face. Probably to hide his injuries, Sarah imagined.

"Did you have a good sleep?" asked the image, his voice slightly tinny from the speaker.

Sarah took a second to realise he was talking directly to her. _Seems like he can see me as well_. "Fine, I guess."

"Good," he said, disinterested. "Orientation begins in ten minutes."

"Orientation?"

"Letting you know what's going on. Explaining Twisted Metal thoroughly, introducing you to the competition."

"You want me to get to know the people I'm supposed to kill?" she asked with a smile.

"It's up to you, just be there. Follow the signs in the corridor." With that, the monitor cut off into darkness.

Sarah sighed, reaching for a large black holdall that had been presented to her by Calypso the night before. It still weighed heavily over her mind, killing someone. Taking a life. Killing people who had entered this competition, just like her, all desperately searching for something. Couild she really bring herself to do that?

Yes. Yes, cried the dark part of her soul, the part that wanted everything to be good again, back to how it all was. She sworn then, sworn that she'd do anything, _anything_ to change the past. She had begged, pleaded, ordered, demanded, _prayed_ to change the past. Now she had the opportunity, she would take it. She _would_.

Suddenly, the dark side was gone, satisfied that it had momentarilly taken her over and briefly glimpsed life. She unzipped the holdall, revealing a selection of clothes and accessories. _Finally, something other than a hospital gown_, she grinned.

The bag contained a mixture of clothes; everything from dresses to punk gear, slutty outfits to fetish gear and everything in-between. She raised an eyebrow. _Everything a girl needs_. _Typical men_.

Finding a leather jacket and a pair of jeans, she dropped the towel and climbed into her new clothes, wondering just what 'orientation' was going to bring.

*

From his computer, Calypso focused his camera on the young redhead, watching her dress slowly and fixing her hair before leaving her room. He smiled, relishing the feelings pulsing through him, feelings his body had not felt in an age. Yes, she had potential for sure. Potential.

*

It didn't take Sarah long to find the orientation. Emergining into the corridor outside her room, she was confronted by a phalanx of armed guards; stormtroopers. The guards all wore the same black jumpsuits and a protective helmet, a sturdy gas mask moulded into place over their mouths.

In their hands were high-tech assault rifles, and in their eyes was the threat to use them.

Wordlessly, the guards led her through a network of dull grey corridors for a few minutes, each new turn a copy of the last. Eventually, they arrived at an open doorway, protected by a group of stormtroopers.

"Thanks for the date, fellas," quipped Sarah as she walked away from her guides. "We _gotta_ party some time."

Beyond the doorway was a large conference room, with seats set out in neat rows. A few figures occupied some seats, but Sarah couldn't make out much at all from where she stood.

As she moved for the door, a sturdy black riot baton blocked her path, wielded by one of the faceless stormtroopers.

"What?" asked Sarah. "You gonna check my I.D?"

Without a word, the stormtrooper snatched Sarah's left arm and pulled it towards him. Despite her protests, he calmly drew a small object from a bag and snapped it around Sarah's wrist before letting her go.

Muttering to herself, she examined the object that was attatched to her; small and grey, it was a wristband no larger and no heavier than a bracelet. However, it was clamped tightly, and showed no sign of coming off easily. As she prodded it, the riot baton touched her lightly on the arm.

"Leave it," said the guard.

"What's it for?"

"Just keeping track of you. Now move." He pointed into the conference room with the baton.

With a shrug of her shoulders, Sarah gave up and wandered into the room ahead.

She had arrived mid-pack, and as she took a seat at the rear, she cast an eye over the room. First to be noticed, purely becuase he looked so out of place, was a small, thin man in the front row, his hands clasped nervously together. With his neatly combed hair and tweed suit, he looked like either a librarian or a bible salesman.

_What's he here for_, she wondered. _Mission from God?_

No..._HE'S on a mission from God_, she thought, catching him sat in the corner. Dead eyes peeked out from behind spectacles, the only outstanding part of a body wrapped in a priest's smock and a wide-brimmed hat.

_Now this is just getting plain weird_.

The room filled up slowly; a bearded biker, a badly-scarred woman who once could have been beautiful, a massively overweight teenage boy, a figure limping in completely covered by a shawl, a striding man, whom, by his walk and straight back, Sarah assumed to be either police or millitary. More and more, until the room was almost full. Nothing special, nothing surprising.

Then he came in.

And hit the room like a Kansas tornado.

He bounded in, breaking the silence and announcing like he just walked into a college kegger party. "Never fear, you bunch of beautiful bastards, the unstoppable Scott is here! Now, I'll apologise in advance for killing all you guys, but then again, you didn't have a hope in the first place. Best damn street racer in Detroit, no fear!" He crossed his arms over his chest, seemingly happy that everyone was looking at him. 

A tight white wife-beater hanging loose over his jeans, he lloked like he should have been in a commercial for Gap.

Then, with a sudden change of his stance, he clicked his fingers and pointed both hands at Sarah. "Hey, Red, maybe I'll spare you, if you let my into your panties, that is."

Sarah arched an eyebrow at him. "You've got no chance," she said quietly.

"Of getting you in the sack?"

"Of survival," she said, turning away from him.

Scott went to reply, by felt the barrel of a gun in his back; a subtle hint from the guards to take his seat.

There were 19 in the room for a few moments, before _she_ made it a full twenty. She walked in through the room, a nervous look of set determination on her face. Her thin face was framed by long straight black hair, matching the make-up that ringed her eyes and darkened her lips.

Dressed in a flowing black dress, she tucked it under her legs as she sat down, just catching Sarah turning away from her. She continued watching the redhead until she turned her head again, casting a quick glance.

Sarah averted her gaze for a second time, cursing herself inwardly. _What the hell are you doing, Sarah? Knock it off already_.

And then suddenly, as if he had appeared from nowhere, all attention was on Calypso.

He stood on the stage at the front of the room, casting an eye over his competetors, his own personal gladiators. "Welcome to orientation," he said simply, but it had the effect of hypnotising the crowd. "I have said this to all of you, but it's time for a recap. This is a fight to the death. Only one person in this room will leave this competition alive. I don't want to see any running away, any escape attempts and any last-minute hesitations," he stated, his bloodlust eager for only the very best. "Any of you wishing to leave right now will be shot and your deaths will be quick, painless and without fear. That is the best I can offer you."

No-one stood.

No-one got shot.

And this pleased Calypso very much.

"Very good," he went on. "Now, random draws will be made to decide the matches, but I will provide the necessary hardware for you. And despite the illustrious reputation that some of you have for your lethal abilities with your hands, the killing is done in the arena, not here. Now, if anyone has any questions?"

"Yeah, I got a question." It was Scott, standing as straight as he could. He marched up to the stage and stood next to Calypso, glowering at the older man. "I got a question for you all right."

Calypso frowned slightly. "Yes?"

"That's Derek Borrowes!" Scott yelled, pointing at the middle-aged man in the front row - the librarian. "That guy raped over 100 men and women! What's he doing here?"

Sarah almost laughed out loud at her previous assumptions. _God, could I have been any more wrong?_

Calypso shrugged. "What, you'd prefer to _like_ the people you're supposed to kill?"

Scott ignored this. "What right does he have to win, to get his life back? And he's supposed to be on death row at San Quentin pen, I saw it on TV! But you've got him here, how? What are you, some kind of billionaire?"

_No,_ thought Sarah. _He's something much worse than that_.

As if he had hear her thoughts out loud, Calypso turned and fixed Sarah with an amused sneer.

"Hey!" snapped Scott, grabbing Calypso by the shoulder, "I'm talking to..."

With a blur of almost superhuman speed, Calypso grabbed Scott by the arm and wrenched him to the floor, pinning him with his knee. Above Scott's struggles and curses, Calypso spoke calmly to his crowd. "Mr Borrowes, come here please."

With all the eyes in the room on him, Borrowes stood quickly and approached Calypso, his tongue playing over his thin lips. He stopped dead a few feet from Calypso, catching sight of the look of terror in Scott's eyes.

"Mr Borrowes, take this please," said Calypso softly, drawing a bulky black Glock pistol from his coat. "I'm sure you know how to use it."

Borrowes eagerly grasped the gun in his two bony hands, a look of dreamy glee on his face.

From her seat, all Sarah could do was look on in horror, her hands clutching the sides of the chair tightly.

With a crisp _click_, Borrowes chambered the pistol and pointed it directly at Scott's head.

In the silence of the room, the _bang_ was almost deafening.

*

Some were shocked at the sight before them, others were amused, some were impassive, some were aroused.

On the stage, directly in front of Calypso, Scott lay hyperventilating, stunned by events. He struggled to speak, before deciding not to.

The remains of Derek Borrowes lay spread across the stage and an unlucky few people sat in the front row. Although his legs were intact, Borrowes' body had been blown apart moments ago by a small but powerful explosion that seemed to have come from Borrowes himself.

Still with a sick leer, his decapitated head lay neatly against Calypso's left foot.

"As I said before," said Calypso, "The killing is done in the arena, not here. As well as a locator, the wristbands you all wear are a safety device, or should I say, an _unsafe_ device."

He let the news sink in to the crowd before him, all bar the most suicidal examinging the wristbands with an unsettling unease. 

Sarah brought the plastic clip close to her eyes, dread overtaking her. _No backing out now_..._As if there ever was_.

"The wristband you are all wearing contains a small amount of RDX-compound explosive that is quite enough to kill you, as you can see with Mr Borrowes here." All eyes in the room again went to what was left of Borrowes' body. "The device monitors the hypothalamus gland in the brain, which is responsible for acts of agression, the fight or flight response as psychologists call it. If the device records high enough activity of the gland, it go boom, so all you little cats and kittens out there with mood swings and such should really watch out.

"And by the way, if you try to take the bands off, trust me, they will explode, so don't bother." With that, he flicked Borrowes' head away with his foot. "I never did like rapists." 

Calypso raised his arms in a mock-friendly greeting to those before him, accompanied with a wicked smile. "Welcome to Twisted Metal."


	3. Quickdraw

**__**

CHAPTER THREE: QUICKDRAW

"Hey."

Sarah turned, drawn out of her examination of the locator bracelet. It made her uneasy to know that the trigger for the explosives was hormones and chemicals, something that she had little control over. _Here's hoping that I don't have any bad dreams_..._oops, that's all I have_. _I suppose dying in your sleep isn't the worst way to go_.

_Even if it is in an explosion_.

In front of her stood the girl from earlier, her hands clasped behind her back.

Sarah said nothing, her eyes looking for any sign of a weapon held ready. _Knock it off,_ she told herself. _You've been in Blackfield for far too long_. _And besides, she tries anything, the only thing I've got to worry about is washing her out of my hair_.

"Hey," Sarah finally replied, lacking a smile. The briefing room had emptied, and Sarah had thought that she was the only one left.

The girl in front of her broke into a smile, nervously running her hands through her long black hair. "I see you're thinking about your bracelet. Kind of a drag, huh?"

"Yeah, imagine putting us at such risk," quipped Sarah.

The girl slightly bowed her head at the sarcastic comment, suddenly looking crestfallen.

"Listen, I'm sorry," said Sarah, suddenly giving her full attention. A flood of emotion had come over her, as if she was tuned right in to this girl's mood. Embarrassment, sadness, regret, it all hit Sarah full on. "I didn't mean to be such a bitch and all, but we're hardly in a place for nicities, are we?" She paused. "And I guess I'm just not used to being nice to people," she offered as way of a confessional.

The girl gave a half-hearted smile. "Suppose that's not the way to get out of here, is it? But I just saw you and thought I'd come speak to you. It's like something told me to. I'm Raven."

One of Sarah's eyebrows arched. "Raven?"

"It's just what my friends call...called me."

Sarah stood. "Well, I don't have any friends, not any more, but if I did, they'd call me Sarah."

Raven smiled widely, a warm smile lighting up her pale face. "Hey, Sarah."

With that gesture, a warm glow of happiness washed over Sarah. _Am I picking up on what she's thinking, or is she pushing it into my mind?_

Then abruptly, the smile was gone. "I...I have to go." She turned on her heel and almost ran from the room, leaving only a baffled Sarah.

_Am I the only one here that doesn't seem to know what's going on? Calypso's running this show like some Roman emperor and now this Raven shows up and it's as if she can see down into my soul_.

_I'm really missing prescription medicine_.

*

The knife clattered on the floor, disturbing the peace of the silent house.

The bodies in front of her weren't just dead, they had been murdered.

Beaten.

Tortured.

Massacred.

Sarah screamed out to her family, eviscerated bodies refusing to yield any replies. Tears clinging to her eyelashes, she looked down to the knife she had just dropped, that vicious, blood-caked knife.

It wasn't alone.

It was no longer on the floor, now in the hand of a slender redhead, kneeling on the floor in front of Sarah.

"Me?"

The figure on the floor quickly rose and plunged the knife deep into Sarah's stomach, the gloom of the house erupting into white light -

- "Stop!"

For a second, Sarah was blind, a messy curtain of her hair covering her eyes. Her heart was racing overtime, her entire body trembling.

"It's at times like this when you really miss the drugs," she commented to herself.

Wiping her hair out her eyes, she lay back down, trying to calm her breathing. _Nice thoughts, nice thoughts_.

A tiny smile crossed her face as she thought back to before it had all gone wrong - a time that seemed so long ago that it was a previous life - and all the things she had in her life. Spending Christmas with her family, hanging out at school with her friends, her nights with Nic, the guy she had fallen so heavily for as a teenager.

She could see him now; short blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes like the ocean that he loved so much, his athletic body, the feeling of his body pressed tight against hers...

Sarah let out a tiny whimper as she memories returned to her, her hands slowly drifting down her body. She softly bit her bottom lip as she treasured the feeling of something she hadn't done for a long, long time, something she had been prevented doing by the nightly restraints at Blackfield.

A sudden sharp breath heralded when she found what she was looking for, followed by a smile and a warm glow she had forgotten. She pressed on, relishing every moment as she rediscovered both herself and the past. Images of Nic in her mind, so read that she could almost touch him, run her hands over his body as he pressed against her, pressed into her.

A soft moan.

Then Nic was gone, replaced by something else; an all consuming black that surrounded her, held her, flowed through her body...

Sarah screamed, her body tensing for one final second before she collapsed, her bottom lip shaking as she shivered through her smile. _Woah, if I wasn't so tired, I'd do that again_.

She pulled the covers completely off her warm body, still breathing heavily. Images of Raven were still in her mind, her thoughts still as clear as if they had really happened. Sarah had never been with another woman - not fully - but it had never stopped her thinking about it, especially in the high school days when she had experimented with her small group of friends, Nic included.

_And thinking about Raven means absolutely nothing_. _You don't want to be with her, Sarah, you can't be with her_. _This is not the time or a place for a relationship, and you know this_. _Just because you've thought about her_..._come on, you've thought about Angelina Jolie more_.

Just as Sarah was deciding whether to go back to sleep or for a shower, the screen on the wall flashed to life. Calypso's barbecued face appeared as Sarah snatched up the blanket to cover her body.

"Competitors," the voice from the speaker said. "The time has come for the first round draw. Remember, two will go through from every round. As for the rest... It's time for the draw.

Sarah watched the screen intently as the first name appeared on the screen.

"Brimstone," announced Calypso. A dirty once-white pickup truck appeared onscreen, the camera rotating around the vehicle for a few moments. In the top-right corner of the screen, a photograph of the preacher from the orientation room appeared.

"Fireman."

A heavily armour-plated fire truck appeared, bristling with sheet metal. A photo of a charred man appeared, one who looked in an even worse state than Calypso. No ears, hair, lips, nose, and weeping sores covering his face, which was covered by a clear plastic burn mask.

Sarah blanched for a second; it was the most horrific thing she had ever seen. Searching her memory, she could only suppose that he was the figure from orientation that had been wrapped in blankets and rags.

"Outlaw."

A 4x4 Jeep, decked out with full police insignia including red and blue lights appeared. A stern-looking man in the top right corner; definitely police.

_Great, we got all the emergency services here_.

"Fav."

A small dune buggy appeared, slow slung with a metal rollcage to protect the driver. It was similar to the Chenworth Light Strike Vehicles used by armed forces all over the world, and could combine speed and manoeuvrability with deadly firepower. Sarah didn't doubt this one would be any different.

A young man's face appeared in the screen. Nothing particularly exceptional about him.

Then suddenly, Sarah gasped as she saw a familiar pair of eyes looking at her from the screen.

They were her own.

Calypso seemed to stare through the screen. "Seraph," he said with a sneer.


End file.
